


Vitya

by Syrum



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Family Loss, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8664088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Throughout his childhood, it was Victor's Grandmother who inspired him to skate, and who motivated him to become the best person he could possibly be.
It was just unfortunate that the rest of his family were less than supportive of his choices.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an entirely wonderful artist, who created an impossibly heartbreaking piece of Victor art that I absolutely adore! The picture in question is here;
> 
> http://dedemidianart.tumblr.com/post/153645317627/skaters-hearts-are-as-fragile-as-glass

It was cold, even for the time of year, and Victor huddled further into the nest of scarves his Grandmother had wrapped around his neck before they had left the house that morning; they would tangle with his long hair when he tried to take them off later.  He didn’t mind so much; his coat was padded and cosy, hiding his waif-like form within its layers and making him appear no different to any of the other children laughing and screeching not too far ahead.  His hand was warm, almost blisteringly so, where it was clasped within his Grandmother’s much larger, age-wizened fingers, as she chatted amiably with someone a six year old would not care to know.

Victor loved Christmas.  Christmas meant getting to see Grandmother, it meant presents and warmth and the infectious laugh of his Uncle.  It meant Moscow, and the excitement of Red Square during their annual fair.  Sweets and chocolate and drinks he  _ probably _ wasn’t really old enough for just yet.

It meant  _ skating. _

“Come on Vitya, let’s get you something warm to drink and then you can go out on the ice.”  The grin he shot up at his Grandmother was near-blinding, excitement bubbling up from within his tiny form as he let himself be led towards the nearest bustling stall serving drinks, and he busied himself in trying to make shapes in the white mist that replaced his breath in the early evening twilight.

* * *

“ _ Grandmother! _ ”  He often wondered, as children often did, why he saw his extended family quite so infrequently.  He could not comprehend why his aging, frail Grandmother could not travel to St. Petersburg to see him -  _ he _ did it okay, and all on his own now too, the train to Moscow seeming so much bigger and busier without his Father there beside him.

He didn’t understand why Father wanted to stop coming to see Grandmother and Uncle, either.

“Oh, you’ve got so big, Vitya!”  She was hunched over her cane, far beyond the spritely seventy-something year old that had joined him on the ice up until only a handful of years ago.  He barely remembered her skating, but he remembered her hand around his, and as he hugged her - far more delicately than he really wanted to - he supposed that was enough.

“No, I think you’ve just gotten smaller.”  She pinched his cheek, aiming for stern but winding up chuckling at his boyish laughter regardless.  Victor took her arm and let her lean on him as they walked back towards the waiting car and the plump form of his Uncle.  “We’re going out to Red Square again this year, right?  I can’t wait to show you how much I’ve improved since  _ last _ year.”

* * *

“You’ll be able to start competing next year.”  His Grandmother sounded almost wistful as she combed his long hair back into a ponytail, letting it sit to the back of his head so that it might not tangle in his scarf quite so badly.  He could have done it himself, but she did so love his hair, and though it took her now-uncoordinated fingers some time to get it right he sat patiently and waited for her to finish.

“Yes, I’ve already filled in the forms.”  Victor admitted, flushing slightly as his Grandmother chuckled behind him.

“You’ll be wonderful, I’m sure.”  He was no longer sure if she was quite  _ there _ , with him.  Her fingers stilled, and Victor was certain she had lost herself to her own days of being on the ice, skating in front of millions, earning a fame that was short-lived and quickly forgotten as time passed and age took over.  “I’ll be right there with you, when you win the Grand Prix final.”  She was back, and Victor grinned, his feet itching for the skates he practically lived in.

* * *

“You know what you look like.”  It wasn’t a question, and Victor’s Father glowered down at his son as Victor stalled in combing through his waist-length silver-blonde hair.  “Cut it off, before they start talking.”

“It’s for the ice.”  It wasn’t really a protest, too quiet to be one, but it was enough to end the conversation for the moment.  His Father merely snorted at him, a derisive sound that he had grown used to, slamming the door as he left.

* * *

“And in first place, taking the gold, Russia’s rising star  _ Victor Nikiforov! _ ”  He smiled for the cameras, laughed with a happiness that glowed from his expression, his poise on the podium.  He hugged his fellow competitors, made oaths to compete against them the next year, and posed with fans for photos and autographs.  He stood politely beside Yakov for interview after interview.  He portrayed the image of a boy wiser than his years, kind and polite, happy with his win yet not conceited about it.  The public  _ adored _ him.

It was all a farce.

_ I didn’t give birth to a freak like you! _

_ You are no longer my son. _

_ How would your Grandmother feel, had she known?! _

_ You are a disappointment to the family.  No, to all of Russia! _

Victor was able to contain it all until he was back at his room in the hotel, bowing out of the after-party early, feigning exhaustion.  No one questioned it, and perhaps he should have gone into acting instead.

The door shut behind him, and he crumbled.  Sliding to the floor, back pressed against the cheap wood of the door, he pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes and sobbed.

* * *

“You promised.”  The tears had stopped, running out until all that remained was the gaping hole they left and the fresh agony he could not seem to leave behind.  Victor had managed to change, somehow, his costume and warm up clothes lying forgotten in a line between the door and the bathroom.  Hair still damp from a shower he could barely remember taking, he stared down at the open locket in his hand, holding onto the fragile gold frame with delicate fingers.

He couldn’t stand the thought of breaking it, even as he himself fell slowly apart.

“You promised that you would be here, with me.”  His Grandmother’s face smiled back up at him from behind the clear plastic cover that kept the photograph in place.  It had been taken years back, before the dementia, before she had started to slip slowly from his grasp until she became a shell of the strong woman she had once been.

“I won.”  Victor swallowed down a dry sob, the ache within his chest not subsiding.  “You were the first person to ever believe in me, and you were right.  I  _ won _ .  Would you be proud of me, if you could see?  Would you-”

_ Disgusting!  She would be so ashamed. _

It had been one kiss.  One, poorly-timed kiss, with a boy two years older and infinitely more experienced.  They hadn’t expected to be discovered.

Victor’s  _ first _ kiss.

His hair covered his face as he slumped forwards on the bed, curling around the locket that he had grabbed before leaving his family home for the last time.  Long strands wet against his cheeks and where they pooled on the coverlet.  The hair his Grandmother had so loved, that his Father had so despised.

There were scissors in the first aid kit, short and a little blunt, and Victor’s hands shook as he held them tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.  Biting his lip in a vain attempt to stifle the pained sobs, tears he no longer knew he had trickling down his already damp cheeks to drip from his chin, he grasped a handful of his own hair and held it out to stare at the silver strands for a long moment.

Victor raised his trembling right hand until it was level with his chin, slotted his hair between the metal blades, and cut.


End file.
